


pray that our loss is nothing but time

by accol



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Howling Commandos, Banter, Canon Compliant, Dancing, Drawing, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accol/pseuds/accol
Summary: That was just the way it was to have a best friend, Steve figured.  They were your best guy, and that came with the extra feelings.
~~+~~Vignettes following Steve and Bucky through their friendship as it becomes something more.  Now, with more masturbation.  Lots more.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomorerippedfuel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomorerippedfuel/gifts), [lsdme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lsdme/gifts), [thommygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thommygirl/gifts).



> This work is gifted to my best betas and cheerleaders. Happy holidays!
> 
> Title from the song "Till Then" by The Mills Brothers.

_ July 4, 1934.   _

 

“Happy birthday to you!”  Ma and Bucky finished singing, and Steve blew out the candle.  It was the same one as last year, saved in the kitchen drawer for every birthday.  

“Don’t spit on it,” Bucky ribbed him.

“I’m not spitting on anything ‘cept you if you keep messing with me on my birthday,” Steve smiled back, more happy than anything to be here with the two people he loved best in the world.

“My boy, all grown up,” Ma said.  She smiled and dabbed at her eyes.  “Which means you do the carving.”

Bucky passed over the knife across both his palms like it was Excalibur the sword.  “Sir,” he said with his head bowed as if he was a Knight of the Round Table and Steve was King Arthur.  It didn’t hide Bucky’s smirk though.

“Ha ha.  I think I feel some spitting coming on,” Steve retorted.

Bucky grinned wider still, happy as a clam to be teasing Steve at any moment,  _ every  _ moment of their young lives.  Steve wouldn’t ‘ve wanted it any other way, so he grinned right back and cut the little cake.  

“Here, you have the candle,” Steve said, handing it over so Bucky could lick off the bit of white frosting.  It made Steve’s stomach flip with feelings to see it slide between his lips and come out clean.

That was just the way it was to have a best friend, Steve figured.  They were your best guy, and that came with the extra feelings.

But later, laying there in bed with just enough moonlight comin’ in to start drawing with the pencils and notebook Bucky’d given him, Steve kept coming back to Buck’s lips.  He tried to get them right on the page, the way the bottom one was full and the corners curved up like he was hiding somethin’.  

He wondered suddenly what they’d feel like.  On his, or on the side of his neck bent down close.  

His pencil froze on the paper.  Heat flooded Steve’s cheeks and the jumping, nervous feelings were back in his gut with a vengeance.  

“Steve, you sure are dense,” he said out loud to himself.  Realization landed on him all at once.  

He jumped out of bed, springs squeaking, and went to fish through that kitchen drawer.  Under a box of toothpicks, there it was.  Practically had a glow, him and it both.  Steve scooped up the little stub of a candle and went back to bed.

Laying there on his stomach, bit of wax and wick in one hand, pencil in the other, he started to draw.  This was his best guy.  Not just his best friend, but the man he’d do anything for, including things that should be kept under covers.  He squirmed a little, hot and nervous at once.  The fabric of his pajamas slid over the hardness growing down there.  

How could he have been such an idiot?  He put the last stroke of pencil onto the perfect drawing of the perfect guy.  His Bucky.  

Bucky Barnes was it for Steve Rogers.  

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ December 14, 1934.   _

 

“Come on, ya slowpoke.  We gotta stop at the green grocer for Ma,” Bucky said.  He yanked on Steve’s scarf to get him moving.  

“I’m doing something important,” Steve replied.  “Don’t bother me.”

“Somethin’ important?  Give me a break!”

Steve pressed up close to the window, gazing in at the Christmas display, standing up on his tiptoes to see past the elves and holly into the Ladies’ section of the department store.

“Definitely very important.  Yep.”  Steve was smirking now.  

“Stevie, you can do better.  Get a girl right under your clammy mitts, ‘stead of trying to peek at brassieres through--”

Steve pelted him straight in the face with the best snowball Brooklyn had ever seen.  

Bucky laughed uproariously as he chased Steve down the slippery street.  He was probably in love.  He needed to find some mistletoe...

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ September 2, 1936. _

 

Since Mrs. Rogers passed, Steve had been quieter and feistier in turns.  It’d pass, this lonely feeling, Bucky was sure of it. Steve was resilient, more so than anyone else Bucky had ever known.  Couldn't happen soon enough, though.  It was torture seein’ him hurting. 

Steve hadn't wanted to move into Bucky's place -- too proud and too stubborn, and Bucky loved him for those qualities -- so Bucky had taken up house at Steve's most days of the week instead.  He made him dinner at least twice a week, as much like Steve’s Ma as he could manage.  He sat near him when he was so low he didn't even want to talk.  He’d pose patiently, til his muscles ached, when Steve wanted to sketch.  And Bucky would lay down with him when the weather got damp so the crud wouldn't take hold in Steve's lungs again.

When Steve was feeling high, they'd go out to a bar or to the pictures if they had a few bucks.  Freshly 18, Steve caught the attention of a few.  Women who chewed up guys like Steve one after the next.  Greasy prowling men that’d bend Steve in half ‘til he broke.  Bucky almost felt bad making himself look bigger and meaner to drive 'em off.  But he couldn't bear the idea of someone mistreating Stevie, loving him for barely a night and then leaving him cold.  

And, Bucky could admit to himself, it made him greener than green with jealousy.  Someone else's eyes raking over Steve the wrong way was like fingernails on a slate chalkboard. 

Tonight was a night like that. 

“Let's go paint the town!” Steve's excitement nearly bubbled over.  He yanked Bucky's arm so hard to get him up off the davenport that it about came out of the socket.

“Ok, ok,” Bucky laughed.  It was hard to say no to Steve when he was like this.  Plus, Bucky dreamed of them getting a chance to dance together, right out in the open like beaus.  Not that’d ever happen, but it was a fine dream that got Bucky through.

They hoofed it down to Maude’s. Steve was double timin’ it in his eagerness to burn off steam.  

“Keep up, old man,” Steve beamed.  He was brimming with the idea that this was the night he'd meet The Girl, the one he'd been looking for.  Bucky wanted that for him, and he’d get her best friend and the four of ‘em would march happily into whatever the future dealt out.

As luck would have it, a pair of dames -- one tall and easy on the eyes, the other petite, bespectacled, and walking with a touch of a limp -- were right inside Maude’s door.  Couldn’t have been more perfect for the two of them.

“Buck.”

“Say no more.”  Bucky put on his charm, strutted over, and made the introductions.  “And this, ladies, is Brooklyn's finest.  None better than Steve Rogers,” he said with a smile because it was the truth.

For two hours, Bucky eyed Steve around the dancefloor.  He was laughing with his girl, stepping on her toes once or twice and she on his.  The color rose to Steve’s cheeks, perspiration on his brow, necktie loosened.  He was a picture.  

Steve met his gaze a few times, blood running high from the exertion and the touch of a dame.  Bucky was dizzy with it, he was dizzy for  _ him _ .

“Yoo hoo,” Bucky’s date said close to his ear.  “You here, or you somewhere else?”

“Right here, doll.”  Bucky’s blood was up too.  It was hard not to respond with a girl pressed along his front side, the smell of her perfumed hair curling around them.  

But it was Steve that he wanted up against him like this.  Slender body, broad shoulders, sharp wit.  

Steve locked eyes with him from across the room and winked.

Bucky was useless after that.  He led his date crashing right into another couple twice before she pushed away from him.

“You need a breather.  I’m going to powder my nose,” she said with a frown.  

He looked back across the crowd, not even watching her leave.  

Steve mouthed, “You ok?”  

Bucky didn’t know how to respond, because he was damn near hopeless with how much he wanted to go over there and pull Steve right up against him.  Have him right on the dancefloor.  

Bucky didn’t do none of those things.  Instead he pushed his way through the dancers to get to the men’s room.  The stall door swung open hard on its hinges, and he slammed it closed just as loud.  It wasn’t five seconds before he had his trousers down to midthigh.  

The muffled sound of the band covered his grunts.  

Tomorrow, he wouldn’t remember his date’s name, but he sure as hell would remember that wink.  

  
  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ August 28, 1940. _

 

It was hotter’n blazes out.  They had every window thrown wide open and it still wasn’t less than 100 in the apartment.  It was the kind of heat that could make a guy go a little crazy. 

“Let’s sleep up on the roof,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, all right,” Steve agreed, but the thought of mustering enough energy to get upstairs sounded horrible and sticky.

“I’m gonna rinse off first.”

Steve nodded and fanned himself weakly with the sports section like it was doing any good.  

Bucky swung the bathroom door closed.  It didn’t latch.  Never did.  Steve figured he should pull out the toolbox and oil up the mechanism, but that wasn’t happening today, not in this heat.  

Sweat trailed down Steve’s temples.  Beads of it lined his upper lip.  Wiping off was even too much work in this heat.

The water turned on in the bath.  Bucky whistled some tune.  That jerk could make lemonade out of lemons.  Heckuva skill to have in life, and heckuva idea, lemonade.  Steve should make some to bring up with them to the roof.  Maybe a little schnapps alongside.  Bucky’d laugh if Steve spiked it, then he’d smack his lips and drink a big gulp, Steve could see it now.  He grinned, already half-tipsy with the heat.  

Steve put down the newspaper and turned his eyes to the bathroom door.  It was ajar.  Long, red, evening sunbeams lit up the space between door and jamb.  It looked like a Times Square house of ill repute, and Bucky was gettin’ undressed right on the other side of it.  He was still whistling that tune, makin’ music for his own strip tease.  Steve caught a flash of motion, then the curtain rings scraped along the rod.  Steve imagined pursed lips, beads of cool water speckling Bucky’s face.  Flawless stretches of skin over his shoulders, his biceps, full and broad from his hours at the boxing gym.  

Steve shifted his knees wider on the couch.  All he was wearing was a thin undershirt and a pair of loose trousers, rolled to his knees.  His hand landed on his belt buckle.

“Stevie,” Bucky called from the bathroom, “This feels great.  You gotta take a turn in here.”

He wanted to take his turn right now, join up with Bucky under the spray of cool water.  

Steve’s fingertips slipped under his waistband, just a little.  Bucky kept whistlin’.  Steve thought about the salty taste of Buck’s sweat, washing away as the water sluiced down his legs.  He thought about Bucky reaching down to wash between his legs…

His hand plunged inside his pants, squeezing himself at the root.  “Damn this weather,” Steve hissed, like it was summer’s fault he wanted Bucky so badly.  

Heat radiated from every inch of Steve’s skin.  He might as well have been boiling from the inside out, and half of it was the thought of Bucky in that shower.  Steve squeezed himself again.  He took a slow pull up his cock, still trapped inside his pants.  

Bucky whistled.  Steve cursed.  

His fist moved hard and fast.  Sweat wasn’t enough.  He pulled out and spit, shoved his hand back in and groaned.  Hell, he hardly cared if the sound of him pleasuring himself carried out the windows all the way to Lady Liberty herself.  He just  _ wanted _ .

How long had Bucky been in there?  Could he finish in time?  Right here on their couch, Steve wanted to come right here with Bucky’s name on his lips.  

The rings slid along the rod in the bathroom.  

“So much better,” Bucky called cheerfully through the crack in the door.

“Yeah,” Steve rasped, working harder.  He gritted his teeth hard, held his breath, pushed.  And he was coming into his fist, gasping and holding back a whine of pleasure.

The door hinges squeaked.  

“Stevie!  What the hell?  You havin’ an asthma attack?  You’re redder than a lobster.”

Steve blotted at his forehead with his damp handkerchief.  “Nah,” he panted.  “Just need to splash a little water on myself.”

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ March 10, 1942. _

 

The point of his pencil was right above the paper, right where it had been for the last 15 minutes.  Bucky was turning 25 today.  Somewhere out there on the Front, Bucky was having his birthday.  

Steve felt a little lonesome.  Since Buck went over, he’d only gotten one letter.  He knew mail service would be spotty, but it didn’t hurt less.  Not that Bucky was obligated.  Steve was just a friend, even if he wanted more.  And Steve wanted the best for Bucky Barnes.  Maybe he was out meeting a nice French girl, or a Brit, or a girl who’d whisper Italian to him.  That’d make a good birthday, Steve figured.

He started sketching Bucky out dancing, spinning a dame around with a huge grin plastered on his mug.  He penciled in a big ol’ bow on the back of her dress like she was the best present a guy could want.  But the picture was still all about Bucky.  The crinkles around his eyes, staring Steve down with a challenge for  _ him _ to get out there and have a whirl.  Steve could hear Bucky’s laugh now.

He added some words beneath the picture:

_ Here’s hoping you had a grand old time on your birthday, old man.   _

He didn’t write  _ and I miss the hell out of you _ even though he thought it.

Steve rolled over on his back.  Staring at the ceiling didn’t help anything, so he closed his eyes and imagined what it’d be like to be there.  An early spring snow falling to make everything a little quiet while he walked up to meet Bucky in some European, cobblestoned square.  A few streetlamps to give a bit of a glow.  Bucky’s dress uniform with its medals glinting.  And Bucky’d give him that smile that only Steve ever got, the one he saved for his best guy.

Bucky would have a place there, a room upstairs.  Thick curtains over the windows and a bed piled with blankets, the feather-filled ones that seemed so fancy.  Bucky’d run the cold tip of his nose down the side of Steve’s neck just to get his goat, but he wouldn’t stop.  He’d go lower, opening Steve’s buttons on his way down, running his chilled hands along Steve’s sides to make him shiver and tickle.  Rubbing his nose along Steve’s lower stomach and stopping there to grin up at him.  He’d say something sappy, and they’d wrestle each other all over the bed to keep from blushing.

It’d be Steve’s turn then.  He’d run his hands through Bucky’s hair, tugging to get to his lips, his earlobes, his adam’s apple.  The bulge of Bucky’s cock would be hard under Steve’s groin.  Steve’d shift so they rubbed together through their opened trousers, slow at first, bearing down on Buck and watching the pupils of his eyes go wide.  

Neither of them could wait to unwrap the other after that, and clothes would fly every which way.  Belt buckles would clatter to the wood floor, blankets would join ‘em there as they hurried to see every inch of each other.  Bucky’d obscenely suck one finger and then press it to Steve’s backside.  He’d see stars and rut up against him.  They’d be closer than they’d ever been, tied together and warm with it all.  

A door slammed at the apartment across from Steve, and he came back to himself with a hand full of his own hard cock.  

“Buck, I miss you,” he whispered to the empty apartment.

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ December 25, 1943.  _

 

Steve was sleeping.  He could fall asleep anywhere, any time.  Standing upright, propped against a tree, in weather colder than belly-blue hell.  Even if it was only for five minutes, he’d wake up rested like he’d had eight hours in a feather bed at the Ritz.  It was a true talent.

They shoulda got Christmas off.  But there’s no rest for the weary during the War was there.  Instead they had watch duty.  Mussolini’s troops or HYDRA’s, either way the Riviera was cold under Bucky’s ass.  There was nothing in his scope, nothing to see but snow-covered town across the valley.  

Steve shifted, snored a little, and went quiet again.  Bucky looked over at him and his crummy attitude softened.  Even way out on a mountaintop, fightin’ a war half around the world from home, Steve was everything good.  

Steve’s cheeks were pink with the cold.  It made him look like a kid all over again, carefree if that was ever a good word to describe Steve Rogers, carrying the weight of everything on his skinny shoulders.  Brought back good feelings anyway.  Bucky couldn't help rememberin’ nights trying to keep warm in Steve's room, bundled up in each other.  

Bucky chuckled low at the memory.  He'd spent most of those nights thinking of President Roosevelt --  hell, Mrs. Roosevelt -- trying not to poke Stevie in the ass with his boner all while wishing he could do just that.  He'd have slept right through it, probably.  Bucky smiled wide thinking of it.

Now Steve was a furnace built of muscle and good intentions, held together with a Brooklyn drawl and a heap of sass.  Still had that sleep-through-anything talent, even if his body had changed.  

Bucky’s eyes wandered over him.  Steve was cradling his head on crossed arms, leaning over the shield.  His long legs were spread wide to fit the shield there between his knees.  It’d be enough room for Bucky’s body to fit there instead, he thought.  Gettin’ between those thighs, snuggling in real tight to bury his face where Steve was warmest… it was a thought Bucky’d had a hundred times before.  Stevie small and squirming, or Stevie huge and squeezin’ him hard, didn’t matter which it made Bucky’s cock go hard.

He reached down and adjusted the bulge in his trousers, pressing down and feeling that tug of pleasure.  He took a look through his scope again, scanning the hills for signs of anything.  Did he have time?  

Steve grunted and then licked his lips in his sleep.  

“You little…” Bucky muttered, cursing his best friend for being the way he is.  Frustrated affection ran through him, and he squeezed himself again.  The head of his cock was rubbing against the seam of his waistband, and it was torture not being able to reach out--

In the distance, a thudding, echoing boom rang out.  Steve was awake in an instant.  Bucky didn’t need his scope to see the sudden avalanche across the pass.  Tons of snow was rolling down the mountainside toward the town. 

  
  


~~+~~

 

_ November 2, 1944. _

 

Did anything look better than Steve Rogers on a motorcycle?

Well, possibly Steve dismounting and unbuckling his helmet with a cocky grin for Bucky.   _ That  _ was probably the best thing in the world.  The cherry on top of this Alp they were sitting on, celebrating another successful raid against Hydra.

Dum Dum had whipped up a fire for them to warm themselves over, and he already had a pot of joe brewing.

“Pull up a stump or whatever you can find to put your ass on.  Coffee’s ready, and Dernier’s got a little sumthin’ sumthin’ to warm you up extra fine.”

“He’s got a copy of Spicy Adventures in there?” Morita asked, leaning back and pulling Dernier’s pack open to peek inside.  

Dernier produced a bottle of something clear and unlabelled out of his coat.  “Zis is better than girlie magazines.”

“Speak for yourself.”  Dum Dum’s moustache twitched with good humor.  “But it’ll do in a pinch.”

Steve was beaming, proud of his guys and enjoying their off-color banter.  “That was a helluva thing you did out there today.”

“And you,” Bucky said, bumping Steve’s shoulder with his own.

Steve nodded, “Helluva thing  _ we _ did.”

“Hip hip hooray,” Gabe said, clinking his cup against Jim’s.  “Now hook a fella up with some of that celebration.”  He gestured his coffee toward Dernier.  

The rest of the evening was louder and then quieter in turns as the bottle was passed around.  Steve was loose with good cheer.  He was sitting close to Bucky, knee to knee, trading stories with the men about the day’s fight, about back home, about the shenanigans they got up to on the streets of Brooklyn.  Bucky felt content for a few moments.  He could almost put Zola’s experiments out of mind.  The alcohol wasn’t lighting a fire in him like it used to, though, and that left a worry that wouldn’t go away about what had been done to him.

“Hey,” Steve said softly when most the others were all snoring, wrapped up in their heavy coats and warm from Dernier’s moonshine.  

Bucky turned to him.

“You should sleep.  The back of the truck is open,” Steve said gently.  The last of the fire was flickering in his eyes.  “I’ll keep watch.”

“You’re the one who needs sleep,” Bucky said.  “When’s the last time you got any?”

“Brooklyn, probably,” Steve said with a little smile.

“Yeah.  Same here.”  Bucky knew what he really wanted: Steve next to him like they were kids again, nothing to worry about ‘cept finishing their schoolwork.  “Come on, no one’s attacking us tonight.  We cleared this area for miles.  Come lay down too.”   _ With me. _

Steve looked around at the men snoozing.  Gabe had his rifle in his lap.  Dernier’s fingertips were almost touching the butt of his gun.  

“Ok,” Steve said.

They climbed up into the truck and shuffled a crate or two around to make a place big enough for the both of them.  Steve found a tarp and they bedded down under it to trap their body heat.  

“How’d you learn to ride a motorcycle like that?” Bucky asked eventually.

Steve shifted slightly, maybe it was a shrug.  “Just came with being big.”  

“I’m almost as big as you and I don’t drive like that.  I think you lost what sense you had, and that’s why you think it’s a good idea to jump a motorcycle over a tank.”

Steve snorted softly.  “Could be,” he admitted.  After some long moments of silence, he tried to explain.  “It’s like drawing in perspective.  I just think about the lines going toward the distance and I can picture how things are going to move.”

Made sense, Bucky supposed.  

“How come you’re a dead-eye shot?” Steve asked in return.

It was Bucky’s turn to shrug.  “Years of defending you with a slingshot.”

Steve’s fingers came up to feel Bucky’s smile in the darkness.  “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

They drifted off after that, nose to nose.  Bucky dreamt of taking his guy to the pictures and sneaking a feel in the dark.

But he woke up in a cold sweat when Zola’s pain crept up on the edges of his fantasy.

 

~~+~~

  
  


_ May 2, 2012. _

 

Unsteady.

That’s what Steve felt:  unsteady on his feet.  He’d spent decades under the ice, and now everyone was gone, or almost everyone.  He’d asked; Peggy was 91 now.  She’d lived a whole life while he was frozen.

Steve was still not sure he’d wanted to be found.  He’d gone down to protect the world from that cube, but he’d gone down for another reason too.  

The punching bag didn’t give under his knuckles.  The sand and canvas punched right back.  He thought of Bucky in those satin shorts, gloves taped onto his fists.  Steve had given him such grief about his pretty shorts.  Bucky’d shown him by trouncing the other guy in less than a round.  Technical K.O.  

When Bucky fell, Steve had died inside.

He bounced on his toes and hit the bag again, trying to find his center.  

He could do this.  SHIELD needed him.  He could be Captain America again, pick up the shield and fight for his country again.  Steve could do it, even with this hole in his heart.  

The gym smelled like sweat.  It brought back memories of wrapping Buck’s knuckles.  Bucky’d done his up too after Pearl Harbor had been bombed.  Felt like yesterday that Bucky had shown Steve how to throw a real punch in a ring like this.  He wondered if it was still there on the corner of Church and Utica.  

He threw a flurry of punches and jabs at the bag.  Tightness grabbed his chest and his eyes blurred.

“Bucky,” Steve said with a crack in his voice.  He clutched the bag as if it were him.  “I miss you.  Sorry for not tellin’ you how I felt.  Maybe we coulda had something, but at least you would have known how much I--”

He couldn’t make his voice work after that.

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ April 11, 2014.   _

 

Steve figured he should return his old uniform to the museum.  He brushed at it to try to clean off the worst of the dirt.  It didn’t help even a little.  

He found a safety pin in Sam’s kitchen drawer and pinned a note on.

_ Thanks for letting me borrow this.  Sorry for the mess.  - S.R. _

When he drove it over, he replayed his fight with Bucky again and again in his mind.  He’d known him.  Steve knew Bucky had recognized him.  And who else could’ve dragged him out of the river?  Underneath the long hair and the iron punch was Bucky Barnes.  He was in there, and Steve had to find a way to break him out.

Steve pulled his hat down low and walked into the Smithsonian.  

“Delivery,” he said to the woman at the information desk.  

She didn’t even look up from her computer, just waved him toward a door on the left.  “Show your ID to the guard.”

The old guy at the door gaped at him like a fish when he recognized Steve.  “Tha- thanks for bringing it back.”

Steve nodded and handed it over.  “Can you take it from here?”

“Happy to, sir.”

Steve gave him a polite, brief smile and turned back to the lobby.

Across the wide room, he caught a glimpse of someone else in a cap.

_ Bucky. _

Steve didn’t run, but he sure moved fast to cut him off at the doors.  When he got to the sidewalk, there was no one.  The Winter Soldier could move like a ghost, and Steve ached.

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ June 10, 2016. _

 

T’challa’s plane soared smoothly over the Mediterranean.  He’d excused himself to speak with the pilot, but Bucky knew it was to give them some privacy.  Didn’t keep them from sitting there in uncomfortable silence, though.

“Buck--”  “Steve--”  They both started at the same time.

“Thanks for having my back,” Bucky said.

“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line,” Steve said.  

Bucky tried smiling.  It felt strange.  He was out of practice.

“Are you in pain?”

“Some, but it’s not the worst I’ve had.”  Bucky couldn’t remember everything, but he remembered pain.  This was just a dull ache in comparison.

Steve still grimaced.

“Worst part is now I won’t be able to jerk off with both hands,” Bucky said without thinking, but it felt right to say.

Steve looked thunderstruck for the briefest of moments before howling with unexpected laughter.  “Aw, Buck, you are something else.”

It was a few minutes before Bucky said anything else.  “I remember bits and pieces of us as kids.”

“Yeah?  Like what?”   


“That time we were at that Marx Brothers movie. What was it?”

“Animal Crackers.”

“That’s the one,” Bucky grinned.  “At that second-run place over at Brighton Beach.”

“I remember,” Steve said warmly.  “You got the world’s biggest bucket of popcorn ‘cause your Ma had given you too much grocery money.”

“Yeah!  And we pelted those guys after they tried to get fresh with those dames.”

“I’ve never run so fast in my life.  And I still haven’t seen the end of that movie, ya punk,” Steve laughed.  

“We hid behind Old Man DeWitt’s store.”

“Yep!  Remember those two cats were hissing and howling?”

“Oh, hell, Stevie, those cats were fuckin’, don’t you remember?  You blushed so red I thought your head would pop right off your neck.”

“I wasn’t even 13!  How was I supposed to know?”

Bucky was laughing for the first time in… well, in a long time.  It felt so good that he said, “I think that was probably when I started falling in love with you.”

Steve’s eyes were on his in a flash.  “Buck, oh.  Really?”  

The memories were sketchy, but, “Yeah.”  No reason to keep it in anymore.

Steve got up and moved to kneel in front of Bucky’s seat. He didn’t say a thing for so long that Bucky felt like he was going to squirm out of his skin.  

“Me too,” he said finally.  “Forever, pretty much.”

“We’re idiots.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Steve replied.  He cupped Bucky’s cheek, ran his thumb across Bucky’s lips.  Nothing ever felt so good.  “When you’re healthy, I’ll help you out with your problem.”

Bucky wasn’t following, and it must’ve shown on his face.

Steve’s eyes glinted.  “Well I’ve got these two hands right here, and I do owe you one for having  _ my  _ back all those years, so.”

Maybe he would never remember everything from back then, but he’d sure as hell remember everything that came from here on out.  

Too bad T’challa had bad timing.  “We’re heading in for landing, gentlemen.  You must return to your seat.”

  
  


~~+~~

  
  


_ June 17, 2017. _

 

They were waking Bucky today.  

Steve had run 10 miles at a sprint and he still felt jittery.  He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at himself.  Whiskers darkened his chin, but they couldn't be blamed for the circles under his eyes.  Bucky used to nag him about getting more sleep.  But how was he supposed to sleep when Bucky was in cryo?  Another entire  _ year _ , after he’d been in and out of the ice for decades.  Bucky Barnes had been dealt a raw deal, and it gnawed at Steve.

The Wakandan doctors had found a solution.  A month ago, they had done a “soft-awakening,” or so they called it.  Didn't look soft to Steve.  Electrodes, flashing light therapy, an implant in Bucky’s brain that was something like a pacemaker for people with bad tickers.  The deprogramming had worked even if it hadn't been gentle.  A huge, whirring, circular machine had confirmed it.  (Steve had disliked the thing; it thudded like when the 75 mike-mike fired on a Hellcat.)  The doctors even brought in a native Russian speaker to make damn sure that the trigger words didn’t make anything misfire in Bucky’s brain.

Months ago, T’challa had come to Steve’s quarters with a psychiatrist and had him record a whole script of words and phrases.  It was gobbledygook for the most part, but Steve insisted on saying, “I love you, Buck.  I’ll always love you, and I always have.”

Steve hoped his words had helped.

He glanced down at his watch.  It flashed 34:16 again and again, notifying him of how long he’d tried to exercise the nervous feelings out of himself.  It’d be at least that long until Bucky was up and alert.  Between now and then, a shower was in order.  Steve hoped that they... he and Bucky could....  Well, he wanted to give Bucky a hell of a homecoming, and he’d had a whole year to think up ideas of how that might play out.

First things first.  Steve fumbled to unclasp his watch and untie his pants.  His fingers didn't want to obey him, shaking and weak.   He gave up on his shoes, just shoved ‘em off without undoing the laces.  Ma would have whalloped him with the paper if she’d seen him do that.  But it was all he could muster.  The jitters had a hold of him.  Hopefully a shower would help.

Steam billowed out of the stall.  The glass-enclosed space was bigger than Steve’s whole bathroom back in Brooklyn.  Seemed decadent, even now, after Steve’d been here on-and-off for as long as he had.  He and Bucky’d gone weeks without showers when they’d been fighting on the Front.  Baths back home were more cold than hot ones.  And don't forget about the rattling pipes.  All that seemed like yesterday.

Steve let the hot spray run down him and hoped it’d wash away his nerves.  He was one big butterfly, eager like a teenager all over again.  The shower head -- one of 'em anyway -- was connected to a metal hose and Steve had explored its use more than once over the last, lonely, frustrating year.  He ran it slowly down his chest, over his armpits, down his sides, across his abdomen.  Fantasies of Bucky following the same path tried to creep in at the edges of Steve's thoughts.  Not yet.  Maybe Bucky wouldn't want that.  Maybe it'd be best to wait and see how Bucky felt, and how they fit together after all this time.  Steve shouldn’t get his hopes up.

His cock didn't get the message, however.  Any thought of Buck made him react like this.  Half-formed ideas floated through his head: curling around him while he slept, kissing him for the first time, the feel of his fingers, Bucky gazing down on him in their shared bed, making the springs squeak so loud that the old lady downstairs pounded her ceiling with a broomhandle.

A nervous thrill surged through Steve when he changed the spray pattern to something firmer and more direct.  He didn’t know what Bucky’d want when he woke.  Maybe nothing yet, or maybe he’d want everything Steve could give him.  Steve wanted to bring Bucky back here and make this their hidey hole for days.  They’d never gotten the chance for anything -- they’d been too dense or too, well, frozen to act -- and Steve was sure as hell going to do what he could to get things right this time.

He aimed the jet of water down his lower back.  Anticipation made his cock pulse.  Steve palmed himself and spread his feet wider.  Behind his back, he changed the angle, aiming lower until--

“Ah!”

The steam of water pulled and grabbed at the rim of his hole.  Steve stroked himself and thought of Bucky doing this.  His face disappearing low between Steve’s knees, wetness and warm pressure making Steve bite the pillowcase.  Hell, given the chance, Steve'd gladly return the favor a hundred times.  To make Buck feel like  _ this _ , knees shaking, nerve endings firing, steam rolling off of him… nothing Steve wanted more. 

Steve gasped again.  “Fuck!”  It felt so damn good.  He was getting himself ready for Bucky, maybe ready for Bucky to  _ fuck _ him.  Holy shit, he wanted that, he wanted to do that for his guy. 

His hole pushed back against the spray, relaxed, pushed again.  His fist pulled hard and fast on his erection.  He squeezed his eyes closed and worked himself over with Bucky’s name on his lips. 

A click of the shower door. 

Steve's eyes shot open. 

“Looking good, Captain,” Bucky grinned. 

Steve's hands dropped.  “You're early. I was--”

“Don't stop, Stevie. This is the best welcome home party a fella could ask for.” Hunger and sincerity and no small amount of good humor were written all over his face as he stepped fully clothed into the spray of shower. 

“Buck, I--” 

Before he could protest about touching himself while all Bucky did was watch, Bucky was straight over into Steve's space and kissin’ him good.  They were complete knuckleheads for not doing this in about 1935.  It was so good to touch him, to be touched, to taste his tongue. 

“I  _ said _ , don't stop on my account,” Bucky chided when Steve still hadn't gotten his hands back on himself after a few minutes. 

It might’ve been an eternity that they’d been locked together in that kiss.  Steve would happily spend that long kissing him.  So he said so. 

“Don't hurry me.  I'm saying a proper hello to my best guy.”

Bucky grinned.  “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“I'm new ‘round here.  Think you could show me the ropes?”

Steve was so happy he could burst.  “Be happy to.  Where do you want to start?”

“How 'bout by finishing this?” 

Bucky look the shower head from Steve's hands and aimed it true.  

Steve gasped.  “Ace shot.”

“I'm reformed. Only using my sharpshooter skills for good now.” He nosed against the side of Steve's neck and whispered, “Touch yourself.  I want to see you come.”

“Ah, fuck,” Steve murmured, taking himself in hand again.  “Won't take long with you doing that.”

Bucky met eyes with him.  “I plan on doing this every day for the rest of humanity's time on this green earth.  Slow, fast, don't matter to me, as long as it's me with my best guy.”

Bucky replaced the jet of water with his fingertip.  Steve shook with pleasure and came. Their eyes never left the other’s.

“I love you, punk.”

“I love you, too, ya jerk.  Now give me a second and then it's your turn.”

Bucky was already wiggling out of his soaking wet clothes.  “Damn right it's my turn.  We have at least 80 years to make up for!”


End file.
